


Fissures

by Ladycat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Daddy Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:45:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike knows his body the way a violinist knows his instrument, coaxing out the best of responses without even trying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fissures

There has to be a trick to it. Xander knows that. It’s make up and acting or even stolen spells from a book made from human skin and blood. It’s _evil_ , as deadly as anything he’s ever faced, and worse because Xander knows his weakness is innocence. Play upon that, evoke the protector he tries so hard to be, and he is a malleable mess of hormones and emotions, helpless in the face of skilled manipulators.

Spike is king of manipulators.

Limbs somehow thinner and less defined than twenty minutes before are twined around his shoulders, a shuddering sigh of confused longing music filling the room. Eyes that seem to fill an entire face, luminous and so blue that tiny veins are highlighted under skin too flawless to be real. The hitch of fear and the anxious desire for approval are whispering and light, falsely high given the realities pressed against Xander’s lap.

“What—” He wants to say more, but the words trap themselves inside his throat. Spike isn’t interested in words like those Xander has to offer and he gets rid of them so easily. A shiver, a shimmy, anime eyes blinking in desperate need for reassurance.

The barest hint of friction.

He can’t help the moan that erases words and objections he’s yet to form. Spike knows his body the way a violinist knows his instrument, coaxing out the best of responses without even trying. Xander is nothing but cat-gut strings and yew to him, and always his performance proves Spike’s status as virtuoso. That Spike has wormed snake-like into his mind does not surprise him, either.

That he is displaying these new skills, however, does. 

Xander knows his mind is dark with shadows he cannot face. He’d thought Spike understood his fear, the denial that keeps him from breaking. Xander clings to those denials, hiding and hoarding secrets steeped in fear and shame until the resulting brew is too bitter to even come close to but still familiar in its own way. They’re a comfort even as they’re a burden, heavy rocks he’d not know how to walk without. And this one, the one Spike has set himself against, is one of the deepest Xander covets. That Spike _knows_ it and is exposing it scares him.

“Spike,” he starts again, or tries to. Another shift has Spike pushing his face into Xander’s neck, shivering into kindling warmth.

“I’m scared,” Spike lies, sugar-sweet words with a lilting, lisping rasp. “And I hurt. Please?”

The hurt is obvious, a carrot—literally—to goad Xander into obedience and it never fails. _Never_. Heart-strings are tugged despite Xander’s desperate need to race into black-shrouded fear because it’s _not_ a lie. Not really. The situation is manufactured, the trappings plastic and fake, but the emotion—the emotion is real, sincerity as painful in Spike as it is in Xander, and the reason their games, their lies, their relationships always seem to work.

They feel so much more.

Xander’s hand slips down naked skin to cup and caress as that pleading, lisping voice needs. “It’s okay, baby,” he hears himself say. Shame chokes him, but words and blood still leak through and he’s half-hard already. “I—I can help.”

Spike moans just a little, twisting like a child with too much energy, electron-impulses banging against skin without clear guides to produce the needed movements. The light is dim, the air close and still and full of shadows, but Xander can almost see the sparks of it within Spike, leaping into his own naked flesh.

“Feels good, D—”

Spike hesitates. Almost, it breaks the mood and allows Xander his reprieve: blue eyes lose the innocent wonder and grow calculating. Concerned. Knowing in the way no child, no matter how precocious, ever is.

“Feels good,” he says again, leaving off the term Xander can’t hear. Can’t _think_. “Why’s it feel good?”

“That’s the way our bodies work, baby.” The words aren’t thought out, appearing whole on his tongue to slip away before he knows what they are. His hand feels warm, even clammy, as he rubs up and down Spike’s cock.

“On everybody?” Clever fingers, somehow smaller than they should be, curl around Xander to imitate his gentle touches. It _hurts_ , the pleasure a distant second to the shock of wrongness Xander can’t escape. “Does this feel good to you, too?”

The question is artless, and Xander almost sobs. There isn’t a memory to prompt this, no secret event that’s been repressed and ignored to make life livable. This is _need_ , so pure and blinding that it taints everything Xander’s done since then, since he realized what he’d wanted and what could never be provided. It’s seeped into his subconscious, warping already bent and crooked paths until only someone like Spike, bent and crooked and corrupt and loving and observant and _interested_ could see it for what it was, and what it’s now become.

“Would it feel good if I do this?” It breaks the rhythm, but Xander knows it’s him who’s setting the beat and Spike’s just following along. Following down, wet tongue heavy with words Xander refuses to let himself hear, dragging along chest and belly to tentatively lick at red and swollen glans. “Does it?”

“Yes,” Xander grits out, because Spike is lapping at him, still pretending even though the steps are skipped, and Xander’s not sure if he’s grateful or furious. It hurts, shatters and tears at him, foundations he’s built his life on crumbling under the cool, familiar heat of Spike nursing at his cock—a blow job, it’s a _blow job_ —while eyes so blue, wise and knowing and innocent and oh, god, he loves him, Spike _loves_ him—

He comes too fast, spilling inside Spike’s mouth. There’s no cry, though, no petulant complaint or sullen demand that he stop ruining the game. Just arms that are too thin and bony, so very breakable, wrapping around him while Spike croons that it’s okay, it’s all right, and next time, Spike will take care of _him_ , will show him that it’s okay, so long as Xander remembers that he never once hurt Spike like this, never wanted to. Shhh, love, let me keep you, protect you even from yourself. It’s what I love, pet, what I can give to you.

Xander closes his eyes against skin too soft to be real and when Spike touches him, coquettish without being too much, Xander groans and lets him. He falls back as he’s straddled again, tightness gripping until all he can think about is the body that holds his cock, the hands that hold his heart, and the mind that doesn’t seem to care about the cracks and broken bits.

When he comes again, belly wet from Spike’s release, Xander mouths a single word. He can’t _say_ it even then—but Spike knows. Spike kisses it from him, taking it and keeping it, until Xander’s ready for it again.


End file.
